Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro by John Flanagan Page B

quickly subdued. And so far, only one girl had been reduced to wailing tears by her boyfriend’s dalliance with another girl. All in all, it was a good festival.
    Then the smile faded as his gaze fell on a group at one of the side tables.
    It was Tursgud, and half a dozen of his unsavoury crew members. They were seated at a table – sprawled would be a better word for it, Erak thought. An ale cask had been broached and was on the table between them. From time to time, they dipped tankards into it and drank deeply. Even across the square, and the background noise of hundreds of happy festival-goers, he could hear their raised voices as they shouted and laughed raucously. People around them drew away, casting disapproving glances in their direction.
    ‘There’s trouble about to happen,’ Erak said.
    Svengal, who was sitting on a stool to one side of Erak’s chair, had followed the direction of his gaze. He curled his lip with distaste at the sight of Tursgud and his men.
    ‘Want me to get some of the crew?’ he asked.
    Erak looked at him. ‘Do you seriously think we need help to handle that rabble?’ Then he changed the question. ‘Do you seriously think I need help to handle that rabble?’
    Svengal grinned. ‘Not really. But I’ll tag along for the sheer fun of it, shall I?’
    ‘Suit yourself,’ Erak growled. He took up his staff and began to thread his way through the crowd, Svengal following close in his wake. There was no outward sign of Erak’s anger, other than the sharper-than-usual clack! clack! clack! of the metal-shod staff on the cobblestones.
    Tursgud looked up as the Oberjarl approached. His eyes were bleary and he was very much the worse for drinking ale. It was not a law, but it was a generally upheld convention in Hallasholm that young men didn’t drink ale until they had turned twenty-one. They might occasionally have a tankard, and people would turn a blind eye. But Tursgud and his crew were all below that age and they had been drinking solidly for some time. Tursgud felt a quick thrill of nervousness as he focused on the Oberjarl’s face. Then bravado, courtesy of the ale, kicked in and his lip curled in a sneer.
    ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink,’ Erak said calmly.
    Tursgud sniggered. Erak took a deep breath, restraining himself with some difficulty. Behind him, Svengal raised his eyes to heaven. He wondered whether Tursgud knew exactly how much danger he was in at that moment.
    ‘Silly old fool,’ said the youth sitting next to Tursgud. His name was Kjord. He was a swarthy-looking young man with long hair that hung in greasy plaits down the side of his head. He’d meant to make his comment in an undertone, but unfortunately it had been louder than he planned. Then he shrugged to himself. There was just the Oberjarl and his former first mate, standing a few paces away, and there were seven of the crew from Nightwolf at the table. What could Erak do, after all?
    What Erak did was to look at the half-full ale cask on the table before Tursgud. It was about forty centimetres across and sixty centimetres high. The lid had been removed so Tursgud and his cronies could dip their tankards in to fill them. Erak set down his staff, leaning it against the wall behind him, then picked up the cask in both hands and raised it to his lips.
    ‘This your ale?’ he asked.
    ‘Well, we bought it,’ Kjord said. He maintained his defiant air, yet he felt a qualm of uneasiness. The cask was still quite heavy, yet Erak had raised it without the slightest effort. The Oberjarl tipped the cask and took a long mouthful.
    Then, with an expression of disgust, he spat a stream of ale, sending it splattering onto the table in front of them.
    ‘You should get your money back,’ he said.
    Only Svengal saw what was coming. But then, he’d known Erak for years. The others all had their attention on the foaming ale that was running across the table. As they watched it, Erak raised the cask high, then